


The Seduction of Anthony J Crowley

by Davechicken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: But who dooooooo, First Time, Idiots who can't say 'I Love You' without having an existential crisis, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:08:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21708742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: A mumbled, sleepy confession prompts an angel to try to move things forwards.It's just that he's no better at it than the confessor was, either.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 300





	The Seduction of Anthony J Crowley

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Phantomstardemon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phantomstardemon/gifts).



Crowley slept, and Aziraphale was fine with that. At least, he was now he was reassured (repeatedly) that it would only ever be for a few hours at a stretch. The first time he’d mentioned wanting to, there’d been a panic, and a fluster, and babbled, barely-spoken concerns.

That had led to awkwardness and a failure to actually sleep, which had led to Crowley up into the small hours, when the lights went dimmer outside (it was Soho, it was never, truly dark). Led to half-confessed fears and not-quite agreed-upon rules, and an assurance that it would never be Like That Again.

The demon hadn’t asked again for many, many months. So long, in fact, that Aziraphale began to worry about it, and eventually asked, himself.

“Wouldn’t you like to take a nap, my dear? You do look like you would benefit from one.”

And that had been the first of many times, which Aziraphale rapidly began - quite despite himself - to enjoy.

The demon didn’t nap all the time, and sometimes it was only for an hour or so. He often curled up in one of the over-stuffed armchairs if the angel was busier than he wanted him to be, and sometimes he would request that the current book be read aloud to him. His eyes would shutter, and he’d either drift, or listen from somewhere between planes of consciousness.

One time, the demon was sprawled across the couch, and Aziraphale bit his lip and decided it was fine. Just fine. He walked up to it and Crowley’s eyes opened just enough to see him, his legs already pulling up to move, but the angel clucked his tongue softly. “Just make enough room for me,” he requested, and sat on the edge with a very confused couch-mate.

“Angel?”

“It is quite chilly out. I thought perhaps you would keep me warm.”

Crowley floundered, and Aziraphale swallowed panic, until they came to the conclusion that he could lay his head on the angel’s knees and fold his arms up against the side of his thigh. 

It was warm. Heavy, but in a good way, and Aziraphale could feel the tension of uncertainty there. He opened the book in one hand, and resumed from where they’d left off last time. Crowley slowly, slowly relaxed into him. His breathing seemed to echo the angel’s own, and when Aziraphale’s fingers lightly touched his hair… there was no flinch, just a grateful hum and a _yielding_ against him that made things sort of… go squishy inside. 

It was nice. Nice to be close. To feel so utterly relaxed and comfortable that he could soothe them both with the touches, and to feel the radiating pleasure from wherever he touched.

After that first time, it became their preferred way to relax together.

***

Aziraphale had lost count of the number of times they’d been in this situation. All of the Lord of the Rings, the Chronicles of Narnia, everything by Ian Fleming, the Georgics, the complete (and truly complete) works of Shakespeare, works by Chinese poets and Baltic comics. Works full of fantasy, and even some of ‘facts’. They devoured things, and Crowley never complained.

Oh, he criticised. If he didn’t like a work of art, or disagreed with a point of order in it. Or he thought the ending was ‘shite’, or he knew better about a historical incident. And this was lovely. It was. 

But they’d done this so many times that it was totally normal, and totally normal for Crowley to - sometimes - fall deeper from the world and into the land of Morpheus. If he was absolutely gone, Aziraphale normally opted for his silent reading, as it was faster. (He had consumed most of his tomes multiple times over, and could likely recall them verbatim, but that was not the same.)

This time, though, was different.

Crowley fell asleep like he usually did, but he was squirming. His spine weaving like a river over the bed, his eyes moving below closed lids. He didn’t seem to be in pain, or distress, but it was something that Aziraphale was unused to.

He watched, wondering if he should wake him, when he saw the cheeks go pink and the lips part, and a soft, weirdly-hungry moan roll over his tongue. 

“ _Angelllllll,_ ” he breathed, sounding like Aziraphale might say ‘Crepes’.

“Crowley?”

“Mmmmmn… yes… I… mmmmnnnnnfff…”

Crowley was still asleep, though he was rolling with some kind of intent, his thighs pressed together and a flash of tongue and teeth. He didn’t seem unhappy, though, so perhaps he should just--

“Ttttthought you wouldn’t… want… mmmmnnnnfff. Wanted. Wanted you. Didn’t. Didn’t want to… ahhhhhnnn… scare you offfff…”

Crowley twisted, and Aziraphale could see that his tight jeans were even tighter than usual, and he was trying to twist his hips so he could grind against the couch cushions. Oh… dear. He was clearly undergoing an autonomic arousal, and Aziraphale hadn’t even known he had - well - bothered to make that effort. Thinking about it, now, it made sense. But he’d never mentioned it, and the angel had never considered it, and it seemed as if he was - at least in part - an element of Crowley’s… uh… sexual… sphere? Interest?

“Dun ssssspoil thisssss… want… want you want it… mmmmmloveyouangel… hnnnngggghhh…”

Did he leave? Wake him? Join in?

What was the - uh - polite thing to do? Aziraphale had never bothered making any kind of attempt in the trouser department, but the sounds and expressions on the demon’s sleep-distant face looked so utterly enchanting, and--

Wait. Wait. Did he just say _he loved him_?

Aziraphale blinked himself out of the room and into the shop and spent the next three days obsessively recategorising every book he owned based on the ratio of commas to semi-colons.

***

Love. It was such a silly word. It meant so many things, to so many people. 

It meant ‘this is my favourite type of biscuit’ to some. It meant ‘I want to wear this sweater until it has too many holes in’ to others. It meant ‘this is my child and I will protect them with my life’. It meant ‘this is my friend and I want to share things I enjoy with them’. It meant ‘this is the person I wish to choose above others and spend my life with’. And it meant ‘I love the Lord my God and I am loved in return’. 

It meant family, friends, items, songs, books, places, people. It meant groups of people to spend time with, and it meant laying down your life for someone, and it meant bringing cups of cocoa and it meant the kind of mad, insane, can’t-live-without you feeling.

It meant, to some (but not all), a physical union, too. 

And if he hadn’t heard those indecent moans and seen those sinful hips snaking towards a denied release, he’d have been sure Crowley - if he loved at all - would have been one of the previous kinds.

But Crowley clearly held some - ah - interest towards him. Which wasn’t physically innocent. And which - Aziraphale now had to concede - might be, possibly, slightly, somewhat reciprocated.

Not that he had the bits. But he could have. And not that it was necessary, because he was also sure (in some deep, deep down part that had known all along and he’d told to Go Away and Be Quiet for thousands of years) that Crowley would absolutely not suddenly stop wanting to spend time with him if he didn’t have (or want) the bits.

He had literally never made a move, and Aziraphale had occasionally been a little… offended by that.

After all. He’d been cuffed and bound. He’d been offering him the finest aphrodisiacs known to man. He hadn’t - well - really had an out and out goal with those things, other than to try to court (not tempt) him to stay around. To - well - maybe? Maybe to tempt him in return. 

Not that he would have said yes. But an angel liked to feel… wanted? And Crowley was always so eager to say how easy everyone was to tempt, so why shouldn’t he be curious about feeling what it would be like to be… uh.

Seduced?

Maybe?

Bother.

Crowley didn’t mention the fact that the angel had left him in a hurry, and also didn’t answer whether or not he’d been aware, after the fact, that he’d humped the furniture and moaned indecently and nearly made a principality blush so hard he blew the electrics in the entire postcode area.

But he could not shake the memory of the sound of his voice, or the curve of his lips, or the wave of affectionate heat that he wasn’t sure which of them generated, but which reverberated back and forth between them, getting amplified by each echo.

There was no reason not to. After all, sexual interactions were not wrong. Not if both parties consented and were genuine and sincere. It was a physical exchange, but also an act of love, and Crowley - he did love him, didn’t he?

All those times he’d saved him. All those times he’d been patient. All those lunches, all those late-night conversations. All those times he’d argued with him and come back. 

Aziraphale knew he loved the demon, of course he did. He even knew he loved him perhaps a little more than was good for him, but that he wouldn’t stop it.

And so - why not?

But Crowley had never asked. Only one erotic, lust-fuelled dream had breached the surface of his mind, had cracked the veneer of agreeable(ish) demon-friend. And did he even know? Was he aware he wanted it? Or would him asking spoil something?

He’d have to find some way to communicate that he was open to discussion. 

Somehow.

***

Books. Books were his language, and a shared one, now, so that’s where he started. 

There were significantly less ones that could be directly obvious, because they’d read plenty of romantic relationships together, and Crowley had never taken a cue from them in the past. 

There weren’t many involving - uh - their analogues. At least, not until he looked into it and found the ones published were paperbacks, modern, and rather less subtle than he hoped to be. So perhaps that was a last-ditch effort.

Instead, he plumbed for ones that were closer to their situation. Gilgamesh and Enkidu. Achilles and Patroclus was a little too erastes and eromenos, not truly equal enough, so that went by the wayside. Sappho, and her longing poems. David and Jonathan. The ‘same gender’ didn’t work, no matter how hard he tried.

Fine. Opposite sides. He picked books about martial conflict, leaning on Protestants and Catholics cut apart by a border. Or German occupiers and the women they fell for. He picked up Coriolanus. Romeo and Juliet (not the best example, but he was getting desperate). Nope.

Maybe he needed to be more… suggestive?

It was easy enough to labour the symbolism as he read out love poems, as he described sunsets and pillows and birds and showers. Dunne and his fellow metaphysicals. Old calls to bed. Crowley just smiled and carried on as usual.

Aziraphale briefly considered finding (or self-publishing) a short book entitled ‘How to tell the idiot demon in your life that you are ready to take things to the next step: And that isn’t sending joint Christmas cards or getting him slippers for when he’s around’. Or a copy of the Kama Sutra with a bookmark in and post-its highlighting his preference for earliest experimentation.

If he didn’t know better, Aziraphale would think that Crowley was just - a prude! 

Six thousand years and he’d done no more than peck him on the cheek! The blasted creature had been literally all the way inside of his body and he had done nothing more than very structured cuddling on a couch since.

Did he actually - want more? Had the ‘wet’ dream been an aberration? Would he be horrified if Aziraphale made a move on him?

Because by God had he been trying!

The next time Crowley sat down on the couch, Aziraphale was practically dreading him lying down. Only the fact that he hadn’t put anything between his legs kept it from being totally disastrous, and he smiled a wan smile as the demon settled.

“Hey,” Crowley said, blinking up. “You, uh, not in the mood?”

“Me? Me not in the - me?”

“Uh… yeah… kind of what I--”

“I don’t understand! I don’t understand what I’ve done wrong?!”

Crowley pulled back, then, to the other side of the couch. And Aziraphale realised he had utterly, utterly ruined things. Oh, great. His heart entered his shoes, and tried to leave via the shoelace holes. 

“Angel, mind filling in what I’m very obviously not getting?”

“You!” he hissed, miserably. “Me!”

“Yes. I - I understand the concept of identity. But how it relates to--”

“You utterly insufferable demon, if you don’t want me, you should - you should stop leading me on with your - your - eyes and your - your--”

He gestured frantically with one hand, and only stopped when a finger hooked in the edge of his cuff and tried to hold him still.

“Angel, would you stop being a bloody drama queen and _tell me what I’ve done wrong_?”

“I’ve been trying - trying to - you don’t want me!” he bawled, hating how vulnerable and needy and pathetic he sounded. “You’re a demon, and you - you _tempt_ people all the time--”

“Past tense, angel.”

“Fine! But you did, and you - you never tempted **me**. And when I tried to - to redress the balance… you…”

Crowley went stock-still. “You… you were reading all those books on purpose?”

“ _Yes_. Why else would I?”

“Angel. Just… try to look at it from my perspective, please?”

He’d done nothing but, and still he nodded.

“I’ve - er - maybe had those kinds of thoughts for some time, now. And I drove myself crazy thinking I could read… I dunno… messages in what you said. What you wore. But it never… I thought it was just me reading things because I wanted to see them.”

“Oh.” He scrunched his lips into his mouth. “I see.”

“No. No, you don’t. I… you’re an _angel_ and… I’m not and… I thought you, ughn, didn’t… want that kind of--”

“Well, I didn’t either, but I’m willing to try. And you--” Bugger. “You were saying things in your sleep one time, so I thought--”

“I - what?”

“Well, it seemed like a pleasant dream, and so I thought, perhaps, if I tried to… communicate with you… to show you that it was… ah… reciprocated?”

Crowley stared. And then barked out a laugh. “Have you been… seducing me?”

“Well if you have to bloody ask, then I haven’t, because it didn’t work, did it?” He was miserable, now. Miserable and embarrassed and he couldn’t even feel vindicated.

“...and you don’t think… maybe… I was, too?”

Oh. Oh… “You were?”

“Uh. I mean. It wasn’t like I was just trying to get… you know. Sexual favours. But I was definitely open to the prospect. And if you didn’t want to… I was… well. It wouldn’t kill me, so…”

Both sitting on the couch, curled up into themselves, and feeling truly useless and unsuccessful.

“Well. We could just… say it was a success,” Aziraphale offered, at length. “You were trying to catch my interest, I was trying to catch yours…”

“We just… weren’t that good at working out we’d achieved it?”

The angel nodded, his throat tight. “Yes?”

“So… you…?”

“Want to go for dinner?” Aziraphale asked. “And maybe we could… that could be a… mutual effort?”

“You’re s--”

“Anthony J Crowley, do you really want to ask me that question, right now?”

“...no, angel. I don’t.”

“Good.”

***

Aziraphale could hardly focus all through the meal. They were - oh! On a _date_. And - perhaps - a promise? That was the Human term, wasn’t it? When there was a plan to consummate, later.

They had both confirmed, in their own, awkward way, that it was a desirable outcome. One that had been pursued, and would be welcome. Aziraphale had taken the distance from the couch on purpose, wanting the memory to have a more positive beginning, so he could treasure it forever.

And also, because he wanted to be seductive without worrying it wasn’t being read for what it was.

He chose the wine, and Crowley leaned over his chair, legs spread, but cheeks red. He’d been in that position for so many years, but now… now the angel could drag his eyes over him properly. Could chase the tendon of his throat with his gaze, could imagine the tongue in the mouth. Could see the rapid, shallow rise-fall of his chest and belly as he attempted to look cool. Could imagine the strength in those wiry thighs, and how they would feel wrapped around him. Around his neck, around his waist… pinning him to the wall, or grinding between his. How they’d look with his nails scraped over pale flesh, or how they’d stretch if he pushed the knees as wide as they’d go.

He had, now, made the Effort. And the Effort was currently reminding him of the finite pool of blood in this body, and how it was right now the most essential service and could not spare a single drop.

Clever hands, one finger tapping on the stem of his champagne flute. Long fingers. Perfect to suckle on, perfect to pin down, or let wander over his wings. A quirk of lips that he imagined wrapped around him.

How long had he been repressing these thoughts? Denying their existence? How many fleeting glances had been an ‘if only’? How much happier could they have been?

“I was thinking,” Aziraphale ventured, “...we might be most comfortable at your place, if you are willing to let me in.”

“Willing to… course I bloody am!”

“You have a large bed. I remember from that night. And--”

“Thought about this a lot, have you?”

“Yes.” He said it proudly. He had. “I am unsure if I have a ‘preference’, but I am willing to try anything you should like.”

“...not the sexiest of ways to sell it, I gotta say.”

“I read love poetry to you.” Aziraphale pouted. “I read the most--”

Under the table, an ankle brushed his. Aziraphale immediately shut up, because his mind was busy processing the way that made his whole body… tingle. And ache. And long. And…

“ _That_ was sexy,” Crowley rumbled, and although he was trying for confidence, Aziraphale could see the frays at the edge of his voice.

He was just as anxious and out of his depth as the angel was.

Strangely, that was the thing that finally made it snap into place inside his head. They both wanted. Neither of them really knew, precisely, what or how. So it was okay.

It was okay, because they’d find their own way, like they always had.

“Would you like to drive me to your place for coffee, and I can recite some more?” he offered.

“Only if we can skip the coffee. I’m holding out for something stronger.”

Oh dear. Yes. That sounded lovely.

***

Crowley’s hand kept glancing against his, nearly holding, never quite resolving, as they made it to his flat.

It was not, truth be told, the most romantic or sexually appealing of places that Aziraphale could think of, but then… where would be? Rome, draped in linen and gold? Eden, where She would be watching, but the air would be heavy with pollen and promise? On a fine bed after dances and drinks? In any memory of any place they’d been, or where he’d been, and wished Crowley was, too?

The place was secondary. It was merely a space, and a series of angles. Sharp and hard, soft and plush. The door shut behind them, and Aziraphale was as red as Crowley’s hair, and he looked down to see his hand being lifted, and rebellious lips kissing each knuckle and the faintest flicker of a tongue tasting between. 

It was a show of obeisance, of worship, and it made his heart skip. 

How long had Crowley dreamed of this? How long had he, and hidden it beneath other thoughts, or anger that locked it up tight?

Too long.

Too, too long. 

Aziraphale pulled his own hand - bringing Crowley’s - to his own lips. He turned the wrist, and placed a kiss right above the thudding, copper-rich river of blood. He suckled, eyes closed, tasting the tang of his skin and revelling in the sounds of shocked pleasure this elicited. 

Just hands. Just hands and they could feel like this. Aziraphale’s entire body was alight with the possibilities, and he wanted everything, everything all at once, right now, then a second time to be sure. 

Crowley’s eyes were hidden, and he watched as the demon tilted his head just enough to let them drop into his hand. The arms closed, and the glasses were fumbled behind him, looking for the table by the door, and Aziraphale helped him, and then laughed when they dropped them anyway.

“Don’t need them,” Crowley mumbled, and then - 

Who moved first? Was it both at once? Four hands came up, holding one another’s faces, fingertips and palms and thumbs and then they were kissing like they’d kissed a million times before, and would a million times later, and like every single one was the first, best, and final kiss.

The physical practicalities sort of faded in the warm breath and oddly intimate sensation of opening somewhere so sensitive and full of nerves, somewhere he’d only tasted food and drink. Crowley was much more important than that, and the yielding, pushing sensation of his tongue and the seal of his lips and the fingers near his crow’s eyes just… 

They had kissed, before. Brief, fleeting touches to cheeks. Air-kisses for society. Those were faint lip-service, and really… that term belied what lip-service could truly be. There was no way to feign the interest he felt stoked deep in his belly, or dancing like dewdrops down his spine. They kissed and nothing more, kissed and held on, until by mutual agreement they paused.

A nose nudged his. He let out a tiny giggle, and felt the shaking mirth in the demon he held so tenderly close. 

“We should really have tried that much sooner,” Aziraphale clucked.

“Well. We can make up for lost time. You’re still sure you--”

“Crowley. Most beloved demon. You are incredibly foolish for one so brave and smart, you know.”

“That’s my line,” he groused. 

“I adore you with my whole being, if I haven’t been clear enough over recent months. I know I wasn’t before. Will you forgive an old angel, and teach him new tricks?”

“Depends… will said angel be here in the morning, or will I wake up to a handkerchief and a bunch of fivers?”

“You’re worth more than a few creased notes,” he chuckled, and used the tip of his nose to chase the snake along one cheek. “I shall be here in the morning. And any morning you wish me to be.”

“Forever?”

“Forever.”

***

Undressing was a mix of awkward and amusing, as they kept being distracted by nipping at ears or pushing a nose into hair as their hands crossed over and unwrapped the spells of their decorum. 

Aziraphale laughed as the undone bowtie snapped at his nose, and he tugged the ridiculous choke-chain to pull his demon closer for a taste of that throat. If he was doing this, he was doing this whole-heartedly. You didn’t go to a Michelin-starred restaurant and only eat the appetisers, after all. 

Crowley liked his mouth a lot, he found, and Aziraphale enjoyed the way those fingers found points of pressure and pushed until he felt something just… go. Into his shoulder blades, or his upper arms, and they wound up sitting on the edge of the (very large, very imposing, very… plush) bed, with shirts and jackets slung to the floor unwanted and unwelcome. 

He had thought, perhaps, he might feel self-conscious. Thought he might feel unsure of this body, but the glances he received, the utter delight and hope… 

The angel coiled his fingers in short, napped hair as lips lapped at one nipple, making the sensation radiate out in all new ways. This was utterly lovely, and he knew his demon was enjoying it too, because he wriggled and writhed and whimpered when a thumb pressed behind an ear. He squirmed and sighed and the glimpses of his eyes told him all he needed to know.

But he wanted to hear it, anyway.

“Crowley,” he whispered, as he ran his fingers up the inside of one denim-clad thigh.

“Mmmnh?”

“Was this what you wanted?”

He pulled away just enough to worriedly meet his eyes. “It isn’t what y--”

“Not what I asked, my precious boy. Is this what _you_ wanted?”

“...something like. I mean. I... gnnn… really?”

“It’s important,” he insisted, his hand stilling.

“Thought ‘bout it plenty. Didn’t think you did.”

“And if I had… never… tried to do the same?”

“We’d have been reading less artistic filth and more about your more baroque interests, I assume.”

He chuckled, and bent to kiss the tip of his nose. “I enjoy this.”

“Me, too.” Crowley blinked owlishly up at him. “Angel?”

“Yes?”

“I wasn’t joking. Uh. The books…”

“I know.”

“You say that, but we just spent--”

“ _I know_ ,” he pressed, and stroked his palm firmly over the inside of Crowley’s thigh, up to his groin. He curled his fingers around the solid bulge he found, and watched those eyes change as his demon lost even more control. 

“...ssssss’good…”

“Would you like to lie down with me?”

Hurried nodding, and shoes that were kicked off, leaving socks and jeans and belt alone. Crowley couldn’t move away from his hand, not until Aziraphale pushed him on his back and moved to straddle him. He tangled their legs together, hand trapped between their crotches, and rocked to push against him.

Greedy hands gripped and tugged at his shoulder, his upper arms, his waist… as Crowley keened and squirmed, rutting like he had in his sleep that time. It was beautiful to watch, and Aziraphale pushed his own erection against Crowley’s thigh to get a similar sensation for himself.

“FUCK, angel! Fuck! How the - FUCK did you -- don’t tell me! Oh, don’t ssssstop, please, please…”

Babbling. His suave, silver-tongued serpent wiggling about like he’d found some ancient passion of his own, his cock held back by clothes, his chest blotching pink when a flush made his pale skin waken. 

It was intoxicatingly beautiful, and it could - for him - be nothing but love. He wouldn’t want to do this without that, though he could understand how a Human might. No, for him it was this creature, this… loving, wicked, wonderful, complicated thing that surrendered to the sensation and rutted at his hand like he was unable to do anything but.

“What do you want, my dear?”

Hands grabbed the angel’s ass, then, and his brows rose. 

“Naked,” Crowley begged. “Please. Angel…”

It took more effort, and they had some difficulty with opening the jeans enough to shimmy them off, but eventually an angel of the Lord and a demon (once removed from the Lord) were bare and together, over crumpled, black satin sheets. 

Crowley, biting his lip and grabbing sheets in his hands to keep from touching himself. Aziraphale admiring the display, and feeling his own body hum and throb in its own, frustrated desire. 

“Well. If you wanted to seduce me...” Crowley drawled.

Aziraphale bent delicately, and placed a kiss to the tip of that dick. “You consider it a temptation accomplished?”

A little shunt of his hips, dragging that cock over his lips, said yes. He did. 

He let Crowley drag him in for more kisses as their bodies wound tighter again, finding planes and angles to slide against. It was harder and harder each time, and the friction was good, but… it couldn’t quite… like an itch he couldn’t stop…

“C-can I?” Crowley asked, without explaining what.

Aziraphale would have said yes, anyway, and he nodded. He let himself be rolled onto his back, and watched Crowley kneel over his legs. The demon took a dick in each hand, and started to stroke roughly. The grip was exciting, the channel of digits that rode over his shaft. But better than that was the way those eyes closed and the lashes fell like dark rain. Parted lips, swallowing throat, and Aziraphale gripped high up on Crowley’s lean thighs.

“Please,” he asked. “Let’s have this together. Let me watch your pleasure,” he rasped.

“Angel!”

“I love you,” he said, and yanked his legs until Crowley slid forwards, and his hands bumped together. 

Aziraphale pushed the demon’s hand away from his dick, so they could each do this for the other, and stroked with all the fervour he could. Crowley matched his pace, and it was like self-pleasure and not, both at once. It didn’t last for long before his balls twitched in heavy frustration, and a whimper and a jolt and a call of his name told him his lover was there.

Either the first spurt that hit his chest was the catalyst, or the noise from his demon, but Aziraphale was aware that his pleasure crescendoed all of a sudden. Sharp, musical glee that made the whole world fade into the bright flare of love kneeling above him. 

Crowley. His Crowley. His in every way, he realised. His in any way he asked, and every way he needed.

It didn’t matter how long after the release it took for either of them to find words again. The nose on the pillow next to his, the rustle of toes on sheets. The drag when flesh was unwilling to part with flesh…

Yes. 

Oh, damn. He’d forgotten the poetry.

Next time. Next time.

**Author's Note:**

> The lovely [singasongrightnow](https://singasongrightnow.tumblr.com/) did this fabulous art!


End file.
